Purity
by Laoidheach Riardan
Summary: The Capital Wasteland is ravaged and uncontrollable by normal men. What once was the crown jewel of America has now fallen to the post-apocaylptic world as a haven for mutants and the unclean wastrels left over from the atomic cleansing two hundred years ago. The Enclave wishes to regain America's glory through the only unadulterated medium left in the ruins- Project: Purity.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

* * *

The sun was setting just beyond the frozen, poisonous bay, setting afire the murky green water with bright oranges and reds of the dying daylight. It was the last warmth left in the world and it was slowly, yet surely, disappearing. The twilight was finally giving way to the dull, dark night. The fate of the world was heavy, but safely tucked away in a metal briefcase, held in the hand of the most desolate person left to witness the end alone. The wind whipped around, gently tugging her away from the safety of the shore and into the algid bay. Yet she stood, strong against the fast darkening horizon. Her other hand was laden with another instrument of fate, her shoulders burdened with both the option of death or rebirth; a genesis for those other than herself. It meant everything to him. Purity and sanctity was what he had strived for.

His voice, soft and gentle, called to her from the winds of the fading twilight. Perhaps it was reason that spoke to her, that begged her sanity. Her heart became heavy with remorse and purpose; she had failed to spare his only child for preserving the solemnity and righteousness of the Enclave. A fire burned deep in her heart, the flames licking at her face from the inside out. Never before had she let herself enjoy the luxury of emotions, the feeling of actually _feeling. _She too was human, but it was not often that she was reminded of that. Instead, she remembered being bred as an instrument of destruction, a holy weapon that brought divinity to the impure of the infertile, unclean wasteland. She was the fire; the flame that cleansed. The burning inside of her, she thought, was the feeling of the Enclave's honor and virtue, blinding her from irreverence and impiety brought upon her by the wastrels she had spent so much time around. Or perhaps, James had been correct- she was a zealot to end all other zealots; the epitome of slavery to a cruel and vicious master. His words stung her like acid.

But those finals moments, when he had realised she had only done her job, his face became soft and unchanged by rage. His eyes were hard and cold no longer; but they still were dark and brumal. She was infact the perfect device, so well hidden by shadows that did not seem unnatural to him. Her fire, her compassion, had shined so brightly she illuminated the future; though one could argue it was only a trick of the light. Her touch, soft and gentle, was enticing, and promised greater things. She herself were an idol, a gilded dream, crafted in ambrosial light. However, the young doctor was a manufactured war machine. The blood that ran in her veins was iced over and her mind was as sharp as the knives she hid away.

It was done. She had completed her mission, and the rest mattered not. Through her actions she would achieve transcendence. No longer was she a peasant, as through mettle and courage she had proved herself worthy. Behind the fabricated walls crafted from bitter emotions long frozen over, something pounded hard and slow, reverberating in the cavity of her chest. It was once thought she had no heart, but hers ached and bled. The sickening feeling of regret washed over her. For once, the young doctor and soldier had felt the pangs of humanity.

Chapter One

* * *

Raven Rock was a hidden paradise among craggy outcroppings of rock outlying the DC area, nestled in in the mountains at a higher elevation than that of the rest of the surrounding area. The mist around it acted as a veil, which shrouded it in a serene, almost mystical aura. It was eerily quiet. The silence hinted that there was nothing these rocks harbored, but deep inside the mountain complex, the austere and restricted vault was very much alive. The inside was as grey as the outside but the hum of technology left splashes of anodized blue or yellow on the walls. Servers buzzed, their matrices processing requests and queries in the large database sheltered in the numerous terminals. It was all artificial, but there were inklings of life deep within the complex.

Colonel Augustus Autumn sat at his desk, slightly reclining in his chair. His mind was elsewhere- going over mission details, plotting new visions, and recreating the new, beautiful America. His thoughts flowed freely like water, his mind lightly processing what could become reality. As a boy, his father revealed the old riches of America before the war felled the once great country. She was a powerful, proud nation, with affluence in politics and combat prowess. She was not a force to be reckoned with on her own, but when the world became ash in those fateful two hours, America the Beautiful had dug her own grave and collapsed into it without coercion. She too bowed down to the nuclear fire that gave off a brilliant, piercing light that rivaled that of the day, and when the game was over, the king and the pawn were laid to rest in the same box.

It was not long ago that two or three papers had passed his desk that his eyes grazed over gently. It had piqued his interest slightly, but he did not get a good look at them before they were filed away. Pulling out a worn, coffee stained manila folder, Autumn set it upon the dark, rippling wood of his desk. It was obviously twenty years or older, perhaps in excess of 25. While the outside was sullied by time, the papers inside the folder were crisp, save for the slightly yellowed ones or the occasional wrinkle or folded corner here and there. It was all filed under a single label that read "Project: Purity". The first paper was dated 2239.

_Ranger group Delta has returned from the Anacostia region with reports of a 'newly-christened community of tight-knit locals'. These locals have taken up shelter within a beached aircraft carrier that was once property of the United States Navy, and are calling this recently-attained haven 'Rivet City'. Details are to follow with updated information. _

Autumn wondered to himself silently why Rivet City had anything to do with this. He searched through the papers for the aforementioned updates, but failed to find anything. It seemed as if data had went missing between 2239 and the next most recent paper dated 2243. He continued his reading, his greying brow knitting together in deep concentration. His fingers gingerly flipped through to the next paper, and his eyes set upon the first paragraph.

_Rivet City is continuing to thrive with the new addition of a research lab led by a scientist named Horace Pinkerton, a man in his late 60's to early 70's. He is described as being a generally talented electrician and surgeon. Currently, he is setting up a hydroponics experiment to produce fresh food to sustain Rivet City's growing number of already numerous inhabitants. There is also a formation of a new local group from Rivet City to lead research based around purification of the Potomac River; they have dubbed this ongoing effort Project: Purity. Leads of this group include Dr. Madison Li, Dr. James Mac Carthaigh, Dr. Catherine Mac Carthaigh, and other unnamed, unidentified attendants to these figureheads. Mac Carthaigh and Li have recently acquired the Jefferson Memorial for a permanent foundation of this research effort. The water purifier is expected to be constructed late 2258. _

This particular entry was labeled with yellow tape. The bright color stuck out in Augustus' mind as he thumbed it, remembering the significance of the color. When yellow tape was used to mark a document, that meant there was an ongoing investigation of the particular object being documented. Obviously, it was of very high importance- and the purifier itself was interesting to Autumn. He conjured thoughts of it's many uses, and the thought of clean running water. It was a very important discovery that needed to be acquired. Yet, it would be costly and time-consuming to recreate such a prototype that for all he knew, was not even finished yet. There was little to no information on the people who ran the project, and there were no design documents, no blueprints..

"Request Dr. Amarantha report to Colonel Autumn's office immediately for reassignment," Autumn murmured into an intercom as he held down a faded red button that had been pushed many times. Numerous orders and requests had been sent through these lines, each one of its own importance. This one may have been the most important one of all.

Augustus Autumn relaxed back in his hair, the manila file still open, revealing the documents inside. "Project: Purity," he whispered to himself, his thin, usually grave lips gently pulling up at the corners into an enticing smirk. It had a beautiful ring to it, and was such a candid, effortless name. Purity was what the Enclave had stood for, among other things.

The world had become so impure these days.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

The darkened hallways of Vault 101 were bathed in a lethal red shade and the ringing klaxons and alarms sounded like the end times all over again, screaming out into the abyss. They cried out imminent danger, but danger was not close. James had believed that they were singing of his freedom from the baseless, totalitarian vault that he had locked himself in for the sake of his child. Sometimes he had wondered the age old question of 'why' to himself. When humanity had given a word to the seeking of answers for inane curiosities, sometimes the unanswerable questions were asked. When these questions, or enigmas he called them, were asked, there was always a deep pit that formed inside of his gut. It grew dark and wide, hungry for justification. He wanted so badly to shout a reply into the void to curb the hunger, but there was no answer. It was those times when he had yearned for the slow burn of scotch to sooth his restless soul that had always searched for the correct answer.

The answer, he assumed, was to revisit the purifier. He had to finish what he had started almost 20 years ago. James' shoulders were burdened with great purpose; but he began to incessantly question himself- was this for all the wrong reasons? Perchance, he may have been misguided. Logic and reason tugged at him, telling him to return to the vault. His feet were plastered in the dirt of the cave that lead to the entrance of the vault. Brilliant light crept through the aged, frail door made from wooden slats. The feeling of pure sunlight made the hairs on the back of his neck rise as electricity tingled in his nerves. James knew it was too late to return, as he already burned those bridges. He felt warmth creep up his body, and he took the first steps outwards to the edge of the cave. Was that the wind blowing outside? A slight breeze grazed against his cheek, coaxing him into the warmth of the unadulterated sun.

The glow of the sunshine on the rocks and the broken, cracked road was almost too much at first. His brown, salt of the earth eyes squinted but soon adjusted as his pupils dilated. It had been too long since he had last seen the stark beauty of the wasteland. The earth had been stripped down into something raw and unfathomable, something so dangerous and untamed. The pernicious charm was still virulent with radiation as he had remembered, and his PipBoy 3000 ticked lightly, cautioning him of the background emissions left over from the many warheads that pierced through the capital. Still, the amount of radiation was very meager and not enough to kill him, let alone hurt him. In the last 20 odd years, it seemed as if the background radiation was receding. Then again, many things were, including life itself. The uneventfulness led to a sedentary wasteland and under no pressure, nothing was forced to evolve and adapt. Nothing would thrive.

James' eyes turned to the East, and in the smog of the distance he saw the Capital, her many buildings beaten down by age. Their long-rusted metal backbones jutted up from the earth, reaching up into the heavens and touching the sky with jagged fingers. The Washington Monument stood the test of time, even though half of the once white spire had crumbled away. Its outline stood prominent on the fragmented skyline, its foggy shadow cast over the equally decrepit National Mall, which had been long overrun by Super Mutants. He remembered the sky being unnaturally green there. James had wondered where it got its noxious color that reminded him of grass. He believed it came from the amount of pollution left over from the Great War, and he wasn't incorrect.

Now that he was freed from the trap he had put himself in so long ago, he felt that this new found freedom had become overwhelming. His feet carried him down the highway, the sand and dust sliding across his scuffed black boots. James felt the heat of the high sun, and looked down at his PipBoy clock, which read 12:05. He quickly shed his lab coat, but carried it folded over his arm. In those moments of recollection, he had lost his purpose. He became drowned in memories from long ago. Quickly, he picked up his pace, walking towards the only safe shelter he knew of. Even if 20 years had passed and it was still standing, James was rightfully leery of the bomb stuck in the center of Megaton, from which the city built from scrap of aircraft was named for. It stood as a fortress in the wastes, a moderately safe haven for weary travelers who sought shelter.

James felt a small strain pulling him back to the vault. He looked over his shoulder only once, but he stared into the rocky hillside from a distance. He could not see past the craggy outcropping that hid Vault 101, but he could already feel the weight of his decision. Quickly, he turned back to the opening entrance of Megaton, the wind swirling the dust at his feet as the large jet engine worked to pull up the gate that weighed almost the same as a vault door. There was no going back now, but the pangs of guilt he felt did not dissipate, for he left his only child to their own device.

* * *

"You're new here," Colin said with a sardonic, yet friendly hint to his voice. James looked up to the man who begged his attention with his still lucrative antics. Colin had a dusty beer glass in his hand and was half-heartedly trying to wipe away the grime before he set it down on the perforated metal of the bar. He had been right- the wasteland was still sedentary as ever.

Colin Moriarty was a loudmouth, lying and cheating individual, but he was valuable even if he ran hookers and games. He had all the information you could ever need if you had none. His bar had been around since the early days of Megaton, when his father was still alive. After Raiders had killed Moriarty Senior, the young, 14 year old Colin was left with a bar. No wonder why he was so rotten and bitter. He had alcohol as a father figure from an early age.

"Good old Dr. Mac Carthaigh," Colin chuckled in return to the silence as James sat down at the bar. "How are you? How's little Erin?… but probably not so little anymore". Moriarty stroked his growing beard, prying into the interests of James. It seemed as if he was doing it on purpose, as if he knew he left the vault for a specific reason. James formulated a careful reply to the man, who played coy often. He was not here for his foolish, ludicrous mind games he played, even with those people he knew he should not meddle with.

"Erin is fine. I'm more interested in what has been happening with you.. and the rest of the wasteland. It seems that it has not changed much in my forced absence, but there is more to it than meets the eye," James replied. Moriarty had the slightest look of being vexed upon his face, but he quickly unscrewed his lips. James was here for a purpose, which was obviously not stopping in for a glass of the scotch he seemed to love more and more since his late, great wife Catherine had passed and old time's sake.

"These people keep me knee deep in caps and I keep them knee deep in booze and poon," Moriarty had replied, his voice laced with a light-hearted chuckle. Colin was a money-hungry man and had been his entire life to make up for what he lacked in compassion, among other things. He was sad and married to the pursuit of money without cause, so in his mind money came first. "You know how the game is played, old man.." Colin warned.

"I am not here to play your games. I need information."

The atmosphere in the near empty bar became tense. The ghoul in the back working on inventory eyed the conversation between the two aged men, and Nova, the prostitute, looked upon their confrontation in silence. She had never seen James in her life before, but Moriarty seem to know him well. She wouldn't mind getting to know him, either. The stifling silence was broken when Moriarty cracked a sleazy smile through his chapped lips bordered by grey hair. He knew not to scorn James, after all he did owe him a debt.

"Old friend," Moriarty said, his voice soft and lyrical, "I may not know everything that has occurred out here in the wastes while you have been holed up in that concrete and metal prison with your daughter, but I know someone who does. Have a drink with me, relax a while and we'll talk. Catch up, you know?"

James looked at the old crook, his eyes staring deep into him. Moriarty was a charmer, but James did not succumb to his wiles so easily. The smell of alcohol on his breath was pungent and sickening, turning James off on the idea of having a drink.

"Who has this information, Colin?" James inquired for the last time, his voice grave. Moriarty felt a small chill run down his spine. James had never been so cold before.

"Three Dog at Galaxy News Radio, which is located in the center of the city. It's not too hard to find if you don't get your head knocked off by the damned Mutants or blasted into a pile of ash by the twice-damned Brotherhood, " Colin sneered lightly.

James looked around the bar once more, noticing the dust that filtered in the light which came through cracks in the particle board or holes in the frail metal. A drink would have been nice, now that he thought of it and now that he realised what he was getting himself into. James promptly left the ramshackle bar, hoping he wouldn't have to return again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Project: Purity.

Those were the keywords President Eden had cycled through all day, over and over. The artificial intelligence processed those words, trying to form a sentence from them. Its matrices surged with energy processing those phrases and the internal processor warmed up immensely. It was thinking.

_He _was thinking.

President Eden had known about Project: Purity since it had ever been started. He recalled spying on the Jefferson Memorial, long defiled by the FEV Rejects and other unnatural savages of the wastes. What once was a great and beautiful monument was ravaged and destroyed by time and mongrels who sought to introduce communism into America. This angered him greatly, and he felt his crystalline matrices rise in temperature along with his central processor. How badly he yearned for America's beauty to be real once more. He wished to be moved by her grace, her power and her candor as he once had been when he was just a young boy, fascinated by the affluent and righteous politicians who had made America great. He wanted his America to be white picket fences and apple pies once again, and damn it if his dream was never made real. The Enclave fought for the American people, those who were fair and beautiful, much like their country. They were pure and free.

Eden knew of many ways to utilize Project: Purity for the greater good of the American people. Clean water was a powerful, priceless currency these days and nothing else was sought after more. If the Enclave were accredited to the water purifier nestled deep within the Rotunda of the Jefferson Memorial, more would be open to their ideals and politics. More would listen to what they had to offer. People would finally understand their mission and seek to aid them. America would finally be the best again, and President Eden would make it stay that way. Of course, there were more lucrative means to reaffirming America.

The Modified Forced Evolutionary Virus was created almost 30 years ago by Dr. Charles Curling under the direction of the former President of the United States, Dick Richardson. It was made for the exact reason both Richardson and Eden had wanted to use it for. It was highly toxic to those who were exposed to even just minimal amounts of radiation. It killed 100% of those it was tested on and was an effective agent in rooting out the contaminated sub-human species who were unfit to live in the reinvisioned America amongst those who had the pure-strain genes. The purifier was an ingenious way to distribute the Modified FEV, but how would it end up there discreetly?

Colonel Autumn had put his faith in a young doctor from Navarro. She was strong and one of the most intelligent scientists that the Enclave had to offer. Eden immediately thought of her name- Amarantha Sinclair. The doctor was known for her ruthless tactics and unnerving intelligence. It was no surprise to President Eden that the Colonel harbored intimate feelings for her, any sane man would. But she was cold and calculating, her mind a complex thing to unravel. She was not insane, no, but she had a compassion for the Enclave like no other. The fire burned in her and refused to go out. She was an unorthodox soul, as she strayed often and far from conventional means of political bargaining and threatening. Dr. Sinclair was known for the promises she made and fulfilled.

It seemed as if the young woman had a chip on her shoulder, as a dark cloud as dark as her raven hair hung over her head. She constantly searched for some form of revenge- or was it justice? The lines were blurred for her. Her eyes were the color of the ocean and a storm was constantly brewing behind them. President Eden could almost see the waves frothing and violently smashing against a rocky cliffside, tearing down any home built upon them. Lightning raced under her skin and the thunder boomed and cracked in her voice when she spoke. Was she constantly angry? Hardly. Was she lethal? Very.

The ZAX machine processed this information slowly, heaving a small, electronic sigh. The road to the rebuilding had become long and arduous, and the payoff was long overdue. Project: Purity was the last resort in reclaiming the glorious land once owned by the Enclave.

* * *

The more northern regions past Germantown had always been regarded as mountainous and misty, with the extremely rare chance for rain at higher elevations. This was true, except the greenery quickly gave way to the dusty badlands. The ground was scorned by sun in these areas and was cracked and dry, sunburnt from the nuclear fire and the actual sun nestled high in the sky. The anhydrous disk hung like a lazy chandelier, raining down pure light to the dusty lands below. The incalescence of the midday almost began to rival that of the West. The heat was a killer, and the evidence lay in the grass that was burnt to a crisp, all brown and dried up, shriveled from the sun. The wind picked up and scattered dust across the ground, but it was not a cool breeze. It was hot and ravenous, setting afire the skin of the desiccated earth. Deadened trees shot up from the ground and clawed at the sky with their scaly, blackened branches. They sought rain but were given none, and like the grass that had forced its way through the cracks of the mud, withered and died.

There was not much life left in the desecrated world. The only semblance of something living was still dead- the once shining city of Washington DC. Its skyline rested on the murky horizon. It had long since become a bastion for Super Mutants and mercenaries and the Brotherhood of Steel and its respective rejects. There was nothing worthwhile here. There were no future opportunities left. Dr. Sinclair did not see what Colonel Autumn saw in this godforsaken land. Her eyes scanned the horizon, looking for possible threats that sought to wreak havoc on the mission she was sent on. For a moment, she took off her antiquated aviators, which had become dusted over from the many miles of travel she endured. The scarf wrapped around he face and head sheltered her from most of the dust, yet her throat felt cracked and dry.

The two Hellfire troops at her side had it better than she. Their armor was advanced- ceramic plating under titanium used in old world battleships. Their HUD, or heads-up display, gave information such as directional bearings, temperature and radiation exposure. The power armor itself distributed Stimpacks and Med-X per the need for it. Most of all, the gel undersuit cooled and warmed as it suited the outside temperatures to keep the user comfortable. Sinclair would be lying if she muttered she wasn't jealous. Wiping away the sweat beading on her brow with the back of her hand, she kept walking.

But something nagged at her conscious. She didn't know if what the extended silence from the two soldiers or being in a new place. Before she had left Raven Rock, she hadn't been outside much, and her pallid complexion was proof of that. Even if she had been from Navarro before it was sieged by the damnable efforts of the New California Republic, she wasn't used to the world where so many dangers lie. Sinclair hadn't even seen one of those sub-humans that Eden was always rambling on about, the ones that were taking over the wasteland and trying to re-introduce communism into the world. Apparently, they looked much like a normal human being. How was she to differentiate a citizen like the two Enclave beside her from the ruined ones?

Her thoughts were quickly interrupted, as the twin soldiers at her side stopped in their tracks. They immediately took a defensive position around her, guarding her from the front and back. She looked around, curious.

"What's happening?" Sinclair inquired frantically, unable to see through the mass of the grey power armor. This was not a good position to be stuck in. Nervous trembles ran through her for a moment before she collected herself, drawing out a 10mm pistol.

"Two bogies approaching from the south. They appear to be raiders- something easily taken care of. Don't worry about it, Ma'am," the trooper in the front said, his voice crackling through the rusty microphone inside of his helmet. He sounded young and fresh from training.

"Can it, Jones," retorted the second one. "She doesn't have a military rank so she ain't no 'ma'am'." In contrast, the one behind her sounded aged and cracked with an attitude. Sinclair stayed quiet. She began to stew over the fact that Colonel Autumn had assigned her two inexperienced, ill-advised troopers when she most likely could have done a better job herself.

A shot rang out, whizzing past Sinclair's ear. She looked in the directions of whence it came, and saw that it wasn't just a couple raiders. It had to be five or six of them, armed with weapons in poor condition that they did not know how to use. It suddenly became a very dangerous situation, and Sinclair felt the heat rise on the back of her neck as she stared into Death's face.

Metal pinged off of metal as the two soldiers moved forward, the small arms denting their armor. Some of the raiders were idiots enough to charge with hand to hand weapons- simple things such as tire irons and baseball bats. However, their efforts were not futile. One smashed in the older, unnamed trooper's helmet, his lens breaking and falling into his eye. He let out a blood curdling howl and shot the raider who had dealt the damage, but blood dripped into his gloved hand as he did so.

"Move!" Dr. Sinclair yelled, pushing the injured Hellfire trooper over. It had to have been an extremely lucky shot fueled by her rage from the incompetence of those who were supposed to protect her, but she sent a bullet straight through one of the wastrel's eyes. Her brain matter painted the sands a luscious red color, with white bone fragments glittering in the sun. Sinclair popped off another shot, hitting a raider in the shoulder. He clutched his wound for a minute, but growled fiercely like a rabid animal and charged towards Jones.

"Ain't someone a top shot!" The raider yelled, tire iron in one hand. Blood spewed from the dark hole in his shoulder down his tanned, leathery skin. Jones hesitated a moment, his finger fumbling for the trigger on his plasma rifle. He winced as he shot the raider in the face, his skin peeling away and bubbling as he fell on his knees. Sinclair finished him off with a bullet to the head, putting the dying animal out of his misery. The smell of gunpowder and blood and singed human flesh was heavy in the air, a concoction that made Sinclair's stomach turn but she ignored it as best as she could. This was most definitely not a perfume she would choose to wear every day of her life.

Jones turned to his left, his gauntlet on his forearm blocking a hard swing from a baseball bat. The audible crack almost sounded as if his arm had broken, but the bat lay in pieces on the ground. Swiftly grabbing the raider by his neck, he shoved the splintered handle of the bat dangling loosely from the raider's hand and shoved it through his exposed sternum. Sinclair listened to the small sound of the ripping of flesh and internal organs and the sick squelching of blood. Bile raised in her throat. Jones threw the adversary aside, his body thumping on the ground. The trooper pivoted on his feet, meeting another assailant face to face. She was vicious and rabid, and the sharp combat knife in her hand was proof of that. It was covered in dried blood, most likely from past kills. It also was rusty. Jones' gun was swatted out of his hand in a moment of stupor.

Sinclair held back, observing the behaviour of the frenzied wastrel. The sides of her hair were shaved off and a mousy mop was left on top that hung down in a frizz to the back of her neck. It was a prominent shade of pink. Homemade tattoos lined her arms with numerous injection sites of some backwater drugs. Her skin was blistered and scaly, obviously dealing with some sort of infection. The raider's face was also swollen and bruised, her lips cracked and bloody. She snarled through yellowed or missing teeth, obviously trying to slide her knife between the plates of armor that protected the young trooper. Amarantha Sinclair shook her head, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered against Jones' armor and her eyes locked on his helmet, searching for another set before she keeled backwards, landing in an unnatural position. The soldier was obviously unnerved by this, as he looked down to examine his armor painted with the distinctive carmine shade that Sinclair was becoming used to seeing more and more of. It looked like some virulent warpaint was spread over him in a gory art project.

The trooper previously injured at the beginning of the battle lay in the sands breathing languidly, each inhalation ragged. He had not yet taken off his helmet, and Dr. Sinclair knelt down beside him to look over the injured soldier. She had Jones help with propping him up. Gently unlatching his helmet, she looked at him, fragments of glass still in his eye. His suit was working overtime, pumping Med-X into his blood. It wasn't doing it to to save his life, however.

The Enclave were ruthless. They had engineered a fail safe in their power armor that when a soldier had become grievously injured, their suit detected this and overclocked itself to administer large amounts of Med-X to put the soldier out of his or her misery.

Sinclair thumbed his dogtags, observing the little metal fragments that recorded his name, date of birth, rank, and the year that he had entered service. They clinked together as Sinclair yanked the chain from his neck.

"How bad is it?" he yelled, grimacing. His wrinkled eye was closed shut, and the other one was open, but black and red. Blood dribbled from the damaged socket, and obviously, he couldn't see out of it. Sinclair pulled one of the larger fragments out, the yellow glass ripping through the soft cornea of his eye. The soldier writhed in pain, a vein popping out near his temple under fine, recently buzzcut grey hair.

"Matthew," Sinclair said, pausing for a moment to look at his tag, "How do you feel?"

"I'm in fucking pain, you nitwit Doctor!" He spat, his voice venomous.

"Do you want the quick way out of this?" She asked, pulling her gun back into her hand from it's holster on her hip. Jones looked at her from his helmet, his eyes widening in fear. She really was the one inhuman doctor the other Hellfire troops murmured over.

"Yes, please! Just get me up and going to somewhere with medical treatment!"

Sinclair pressed the end of the barrel of her gun into his temple and looked away, squinting her eyes closed as she pulled the trigger. Jones stepped back in fear of her and the gory scene at his feet, causing Sergeant Matthew to fall over limp. The monitor in his suit let out a single, unending beep- he flatlined.

"You didn't have to do that!" Jones bellowed at her, anger and fear mixing in his voice. Sinclair stood from her stooped position slowly, before looking into the eyes of the last soldier in front of her. She had a mean glare on her face.

"He was a liability." Sinclair answered frankly, her voice chilling. There was no denying he wasn't one and Jones definitely did not protest the doctor's answer to her face.

"We must keep moving," he muttered, leading the doctor away from the site of the massacre. As the doctor keep moving in front of him, Jones took a single looked back at the bodies slewed across the ground. This was the Capital Wasteland he knew well.


End file.
